Molly Hooper's Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day
by dnachemlia
Summary: The worst day of Molly Hooper's life just got very, very weird. AU ending for The Reichenbach Fall. Crossover. Missing/referenced scene from my story Hell is Other People.


Molly closed the door to the mortuary and leaned against it as she closed her eyes and let out a long, slow breath. She scrubbed her face with one hand, trying to wipe away the tears that she'd just barely managed to hold in long enough until she was alone. Alone, and struggling to prepare herself for the task ahead.

All of her colleagues had offered to perform the task she was dreading but she had refused. _He_ would not have wanted to be subjected to the final indignity by just anyone, she knew that, and she owned him that much at least.

After a few minutes she stepped away from the door and walked across the room to the autopsy tables. The center table was the only one currently occupied and she stopped in front of it, staring down at the sheet-covered form stretched out on its surface. She could still scarcely believe it was the man she had known for only a few years, but who had completely drawn her in to his crazy, yet wonderful life. A life that had ended that morning.

She remembered the first time she had seen him, striding into the mortuary, babbling about the requirements for his latest experiment. He had paused when met with an unfamiliar figure, and after a few moments of scrutiny had verbally drawn a picture of her life with astonishing accuracy. She had managed to stammer a couple of questions which he had ignored and she watched in morbid fascination as he completed his task. Without even thanking her he had rushed out, mumbling to himself, leaving chaos in his wake.

It had been an interesting first day on the job, that was certain.

He had visited many more times, always with the same air of urgency and disinterest in the woman who worked alongside of him, whose questions he ignored but filled the silence with his own strange theories and musings. Molly had developed a horrible, school-girl worthy crush on the man, an attraction that was clearly not reciprocated, or even understood. Over time, the crush had matured into appreciation of his brilliance and tolerance of his rudeness. Even when he had broken her heart she had been unable to stay angry with him.

She had almost believed that he was starting to see her as something more than an assistant when he had confessed his worry concerning Moriarty's plans. She had told herself that when the danger had passed, she would finally confront him with her true feelings.

But now it was too late. Sherlock Holmes, that maddening, _wonderful_ man, was dead.

Molly sighed, finally tearing her gaze away from the table and walked across the room to retrieve her tools. She donned a pair of nitrile gloves and began to place the various instruments on a cart, checking each to make sure it was in proper condition or working order. After arranging everything just so, she retrieved the evidence camera and pushed the cart over to the table. She checked to make sure the card was in place before setting the camera on the cart and slowly pulling the sheet back to uncover Sherlock's face. She folded the sheet down at his chest and stared at him for several moments, silently evaluating what she saw. Molly had observed the dead more times than she cared to think, aware that the ' _looks like they are just sleeping_ ' idea perpetuated by books and films was false. Dead bodies looked _dead_ , devoid of the presence of life and just...empty. She had expected no different with Sherlock, and sadly she was not disappointed.

She studied his pale face, surprised that there wasn't more of an outward sign of the devastating injury that had ended his life. Whoever had prepared...the body for the post mortem had done a good clean-up job, but she knew if she turned his head to the side she would see the damage, the bones that had no doubt shattered when they impacted with the pavement outside St. Bart's.

Molly shuddered. She hadn't wanted to think about that moment, but now she had to wonder how it had been for him, what had forced him to take that final leap to his death. Moriarty, no doubt, had something to do with it. She hadn't believed the tales broadcast by the media. She _knew_ Moriarty was real. Sherlock wouldn't have lied to her, not about that.

Would he?

Molly sighed. It wouldn't do her any good to think about that now. She had a job to do, and she was going to do it. She picked up the camera, focused it on his face, and snapped the first picture. The click of the shutter echoed in the silent room and she flinched. She lowered the camera and took a breath to center herself before raising it again. She focused on his face again and pressed her finger slowly on the button.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open.

Before Molly could move, he gasped and his gaze locked with hers through the camera lens. Molly did the only thing that made any sense.

She screamed.

The echoes of her own cry reached her ears just as the door to the mortuary slammed open. She turned, backing away from the table, and saw a man she had never laid eyes on before standing in the doorway. For a brief moment she thought it was one of the guards and started towards him, but froze in place when she realized no guard would be wearing an expensive three-piece suit and carrying a duffle bag.

"Perfect timing, Mycroft, as always."

Molly spun towards the familiar voice and screamed again. Sherlock was sitting up on the table, one hand propped behind him and the other holding the sheet to his chest.

"Unexpected delays, brother mine."

She turned back towards the other man, who had just closed the door and was in the process of locking it. Molly scrambled away from both of them and before she knew it her back was against the wall. She slid to the floor and crouched there, wanting to flee but unable to move as her mind reeled.

"Molly…"

She turned towards Sherlock, her eyes wide with terror. "No...no...this isn't happening...this is just a dream...a terrible, horrible dream."

"We could go with that."

"Shut up, Mycroft," Sherlock snapped before his voice took on an unfamiliarly gentle tone. "Molly, it's all right. You are not in danger, I promise." He turned to glare at the other man. "A little privacy?"

The other man rolled his eyes. "Fine. I'll be outside." He tossed the bag towards Sherlock before unlocking the door and stepping into the hallway. "Make it quick," he ordered as he shut the door behind him.

Sherlock swung his feet to the floor and stood up, wrapping the sheet around him as he started to walk towards Molly. She cringed away from him and he paused, holding one hand out in supplication.

"Molly, I promise, everything will be fine."

"Fine? You...you were _dead!_ How… What _are_ you?" she whispered.

Sherlock sighed. "That is a rather long story, but as for the short version: I'm an Immortal."

"Immortal? So you...can't die?"

"Not permanently, no. As least not in a normal way."

She rose from the floor and hesitantly walked towards him, her gaze fixed on the side of his head where the damage should be. When she was standing in front of him she reached up and tentatively touched the site of the injury. She let out a harsh gasp and snatched her hand back when she felt solid flesh and bone beneath his mop of curls. After a moment, she reached out to touch him again, marveling at the lack of trauma. A smile smile crept onto Sherlock's face as she explored where his injury had been.

"Convinced?"

"I, uh...yes, but… How?"

"No one really knows, not even me. I can tell you that I was normal once, but I was killed and… I woke up. It's happened many times since."

"How many times?"

"A lot. I've been around awhile, you see. All part of the 'Immortal' thing."

"H-How long?"

"Well, longer than London."

"Oh, my God…"

"Molly, listen to me. You _cannot_ tell anyone, do you understand?"

She let out a strangled laugh which sounded more like a sob. "Who would believe me?"

"True, but Molly… Please. You are one of the most trustworthy people I know. I believe that you can keep this secret. Am I right?"

"Y-yes. I can...I _will_ keep your secret."

Sherlock smiled. "Thank you."

"Does John know?"

The smile vanished. "No."

"So he really believes that you are...dead?"

"I'm afraid so."

"You should tell him."

"Molly…"

"No, he… Sherlock, he had to make the official identification of your...you. He was...I think it broke him. He _needs_ to know you're alive." She laughed softly. "Pretty sure he can keep your secret, too."

"I'll take it under consideration."

"Good."

A series of quick, loud knocks drew their attention to the door and Sherlock sighed. "Mycroft's patience is wearing thin. I better get going." He grabbed the duffle bag. "I, uh…"

"Use my office."

"Thank you."

Molly managed _not_ to watch him hurry across the mortuary with the sheet barely covering him and let out a small sigh after he disappeared into her office. Just as one door shut the other opened and the other man... _Mycroft_ looked through the gap.

"All settled?"

"Uh, yes. Wait. You're his _brother_?"

"As close as he could ever have. He's explained our need for discretion?" She nodded. "Good. I will handle the details. Understood?" There was something in his tone that discouraged debate, so she nodded again. "I will make sure you are adequately compensated for your time and trouble."

"Oh, there's no need…"

"Please, let him," Sherlock remarked as he emerged from her office, dressed in his normal attire. "Consider it his punishment."

"Yes, yes, I was late. Must you keep harping on that?"

"Of course."

Molly bit back a nervous giggle. They _did_ sound like brothers, just a bit.

"Fine. Are you ready?"

Sherlock just glared at Mycroft, who rolled his eyes again and stepped out into the hall, this time without closing the door.

"Will I see you again?" Molly asked, wincing inwardly at the plaintive tone in her own voice.

"There's always a chance. Thank you, Molly." He bent down and kissed her cheek, then gave her one last smile before disappearing into the hall.

Molly touched her cheek and managed a teary smile.

"You're welcome. Sherlock Holmes.

The End


End file.
